


Yulieva

by Daphne_Fredriksen



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: AU, Decadence, F/M, Prostitution, Sadism (Mentioned), Space Race (implied), despite sexual content this is NOT a "sexy story", homosexual relationships (implied), my take on John & Juliana, striptease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 12:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21054149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daphne_Fredriksen/pseuds/Daphne_Fredriksen
Summary: Yulieva or Something Funny Happened On The Way To Die Nebenwelt...A AU story (written before S4).  John tries to go to die Nebenwelt... but the alt-universe he finds is not quite the one he (and we) were expecting!  He also meets a very different version of Juliana in the interesting character of Yulieva Zhuravlin.This story has elements of John/Helen; elements of obergruppana (elements, but no consummation); definitely alt-history elements - and is a whole lotta AU!  Enjoy!





	1. In A Private Club

John Smith looked at his face in the oversized bathroom mirror. He rinsed his face with cold water, wondering how he had gotten here. Also, where was _here_? He had been trying to get to the alt-world to reach his wife and son. Helen would be waiting for him in her pretty pink suit. He looked around. This gaudy washroom with mirrors, girly pics, and gold-plated everything was not exactly the world he would want him and his family in.

He walked into the hall – he was in some sort of exclusive club. He saw a table with Himmler, and, inexplicably, Lieutenant Klemm. Who was sitting next to, and more than flirting with, a very pretty, very soft-looking fellow in a tux.

John sat down next to Klemm - uncomfortably, but better to sit next to Klemm behaving badly, than the other men at the table. He looked around – there was Himmler, of course, frowning in general; Tod Metzger, looking exactly as uncomfortable as Smith felt; Mengele, applauding Tuxedo Boy and saying he was a good addition to the party.

There was another man, stocky and square-faced, handsome, and looking rather out of place as he doodled equations on a cocktail napkin. Like Smith he wore an SS uniform. He was introduced to Smith as Wernher von Braun. Ah, that von Braun, famous for the V2 and A4 rockets. “Without you Germany couldn’t have won the war,” Smith said, in a lame attempt at flattery.

Metzger, who was never too bright on the uptake, beamed brightly, as if he’d know that all along. A smile played on Himmler’s lips. Klemm was paying no attention at all, as he was giggling into Tuxedo Boy’s hair. John frowned. If Himmler didn’t execute him at dawn for degeneracy, he would certainly have to lay into his lieutenant, possibly send him back to New York. Without any supper.

“Dr. Mengele, good to see you again. Have you corrected some of the difficulties with the portal to _die Nebenwelt_?”

Mengele’s mouth dropped open; von Braun tsked. “Young man,” he said, “Do you really think we are persisting in such mystical fairytales? You don’t see that loony Bormann here, do you?”

Himmler frowned. “Mein Wernher, be careful how you talk about your _Kamaraden_ to your Führer!” Smith recalled that Bormann and Himmler were friendly - and rather fanatical about the same sort of metaphysical, symbolic mysticism.

“Ah, _die Nebenwelt_!” sighed Himmler. “Fascinating, yes, mein John, to think of controlling all worlds? But since the aversion of war, which has so elevated you, dear Reichsmarschall, we realized we must control this world first. And that we do… by being First in Space!”

“A Space Race?” said John. It unnerved him how the phrase came to him. He did believe in other worlds and selves, and he had the uneasy feeling that another of his selves had heard it, or possibly said it.

John reminded himself to stick to the present (whichever present this was) “But the Empire cannot even build their own supersonic jets. Surely they can’t beat us in this?” he asked.

“The young man has a brain, after all,” muttered von Braun.

Himmler clapped his hands in glee. “A Space CAGE, mein John. Ha ha, we will have roving missiles, always in orbit, always ready to bomb the Empire! And magic eyes in the sky, to look into all our enemies’ doings! And with this man to help us – we will be invincible.” He patted the astrophysicist on the back. Wernher looked like he wanted to murder him for that. If you do, I’ll help you, thought John.


	2. The Gift

The conversation continued in a general scientific vein. Tod, it turned out, was totally in love with the idea of going into space, and von Braun seemed to approve of him heartily.

His other lieutenant, however, was posing a problem for John. Klemm was nuzzling Tuxedo Boy in a way that shocked Metzger. “Lawrence!” Smith said sharply. Himmler smiled odiously.

“Ah, _Schatzie_,” said Klemm, laying his hand on his CO’s shoulder, “I’m just playing. You’ll still find me in your bed in the morning. Let’s not tell Erich, ok?”

John was much too confused and shocked to find words. He had an uncomfortable feeling that something had changed in this world, some relational shift. Himmler was known to hunt down homosexuals. And he had killed his poor Erich, in any case. Unless, in this world, he hadn’t.

Himmler drummed on the table. “I do not share this taste with you, mein John. But! Boys will be boys, as Josef keeps telling me. All his scientific studies on ephebes, ach! Mein head hurts. But you go both ways yes? And so, I haf for you a nightly gift for the other side of John!”

John gulped a stiff slug of schnapps, trying to take in whatever his “taste” was. He was fairly sure that if in some reality he were gay – even if he were an actual drag queen with spangles - that Lawrence Klemm was not his type.

And then, he got his gift.

“Reichsmarschall John Smith, meet Yulieva Zhuravlin! She is your woman this evening,” said Mengele. “Isn’t she pretty?”

He took her in. The sleek brown hair. The dimple in her chin. The slim figure (set off perfectly by a tastefully tight dress of scarlet silk). And the eyes, oh, god, those otherworldly, crystal-blue eyes. Yes, it was her, all right; his bird-with-the-broken-wing. And… Russian?

“Stunning,” John muttered.

“_Spasibo_! “ She sidled next to him with her most alluring smile, slipping her arm in his.


	3. Set-Up

They continued drinking; vodka appeared alongside the beer, brandy, and schnapps, thanks to Yulieva’s presence.

John had moved closer to Tod and Von Braun, with Yulieva squished in-between. John could tell from the way she followed von Braun’s explanations that she was an intelligent woman. And anyhow, they were all somewhat at sea with the scientist’s discussions of subspace and trajectories.

John was horrified at the implications of all the devices floating in space. He was also horrified by what was happening at the table. Klemm and Tuxedo boy were pretty well unbuttoned (the lieutenant would be disciplined for sure when they were back in NYC!); but Himmler had a dancer on his lap that he was talking to, and Mengele was chatting up a cigarette seller, dressed just like the “Philip Morris” boy. He was older - at least 16 - but he was dressed like him just the same.

Suddenly Himmler looked at him and Yulieva evilly. John heard a slight gasp then the Russian girl reached and unzipped his crotch, trying to slip her hand in. John pulled his chair back with a loud scrape.

“What do you people take me for?!” he yelled. At all of them.

Yulieva lost her balance and tipped forward to the floor. Mengele rushed over, belt in hand.

“Lousy whore! You did not please this man, you communist wench!” He started laying on strokes.

John got in between them; picking up the girl. “What kind of savage are you? I didn’t want to be manhandled - but that’s no reason to beat her!”

The circle was very silent, looking at him. Yulieva was shaking, biting her knuckles. He looked into her eyes, which were terror-stricken. He started stroking her hair to comfort her.

“Zo…” said Himmler in a soft voice, “Does our gift please you, or does she not please you? We are very _confused_…”

Mengele had an evil smile on his face. He stroked the belt as if it were a lover.

“She pleases me! I just didn’t want to be fondled in public like, like…” he scanned the table at the degenerates in their various positions.

Mengele’s mouth turned down; had he really been relishing publicly belting the poor girl? Apparently he had. But the oily smile returned.

“In that case, why didn’t you just take her to one of the alcoves?” He made a sweeping gesture.

John swallowed. They had him trapped. With enough material to blackmail him for years.

“But my wife…” he muttered lamely.

Himmler waved his hand dismissively. "It’s been so many years since you set up different households. But you do keep trying, don’t you, John? But, your friend here...” He gestured to Klemm.

Klemm wriggled nervously in the arms of Tuxedo Boy. “I guess we’re breaking up, then! It was fun, but you see, I will survive.” He looked sympathetically at his CO. “I won’t tell Oberstgruppenführer Raeder. ‘What happens in Berlin, stays in Berlin.’ “

John looked around at mostly steely eyes. He noticed Metzger nodding agreement to Klemm’s loyalty. Well, two friends, at least, in that den of vipers.

Smith looked down at the slim body trembling against him. “Come on, Yulieva. Let’s go somewhere private.” He let her lead him to the alcove of her choice.


	4. The Alcove

The club had been gaudy enough: lit darkly with candles and decorated with mahogany and red velvet. On the other side of the red velvet portières, however, was a new level of decadence. The room was brightly lit by a gaudy pink-and-white crystal chandelier. It was ceiled with mirrored tiles (goldtone marbling is a nice touch, thought John ironically), and two baroque full-length standing mirrors flanked the heart-shaped bed. The rest of the room was a hopeless mix of hot pink flocked damask; various animal furs and bird feathers; black satin; and, where wall space permitted, French and Beardsley prints of dubious subject matter.

But John had bigger problems than bad décor. Yulieva was embracing him and trying to kiss him. He drew back.

“You are a shy one…” She reached in back and started to unzip her dress, pulling it down over her shoulders.

A dark red spot on her left shoulder stopped him cold. “Stop!” He went to her, touching it gently.

She responded erotically, as he knew she must, throwing her shoulder at him. He ignored that. The spot was smooth; there appeared to be no hole, no scar. He touched the skin around it by comparison. All of a piece, save for the port-wine stain.

“So, you have kink for birthmark? You like breasts, too?” She lowered her dress to just below the brassiere. John gasped. Her bra was gold satin… and barely contained her nipples. They winked out at him, pink and firm. He blushed and turned his head.

“No kink… but it is a compelling birthmark.”

“Unusual, no? I think it looks like nova, maybe supernova! Even when young, it looked somewhat like a star.” John nodded; if he took his own knowledge about Juliana’s shoulder out of it, he could see that. “And so, my mother’s nickname for me – _Zvyozdochka_.”

“It’s a beautiful nickname. What does Zvee, Zivyo… what does it mean?”

“Little star.” Yulieva grew distant. “I haven’t seen Mama for a while…” She returned to business. “Now then? You want breasts?”

“No. I want you to turn around. I want to look at your back.”

She backed up against him, brushing her buttocks very lightly against his crotch. (He could have done without that.) “You must help with zipper.”

John looked at her shoulder first, rubbing it slightly, but it was intact. He unzipped her completely and her dress fell off. “Yulieva!”

All over her back and sides were bruises and welts; even some small healed cuts. “What happened to you? Who did this to you?”

She gasped. “You do not like seeing bruises? But they told me you would. That you liked discipline. So I did not use makeup.”

“You get bruises, and then cover them up with make-up?” John sat down on the bed.

“Depends on client. Some do not like to see, but most do. Is that not what they expect from the Slut of Stalingrad?”


	5. The Slut of Stalingrad

John’s head was in a whirl. “The ‘_Slut of Stalingrad_?’ Holy smokes.” He took a deep breath. “So…,” you’re from Stalingrad?” he said, trying to keep things normal, “Do you ever go back to Soldatsburg, as we call it now?”

“Go back? Soldatsburg? I do not know what you are talking about, Reichsmarschall. You do know about the Battle of Stalingrad?”

“Yes, of course. Where the German 6th Army was wiped out.” He had been in the Pacific when this happened. When he joined the Reich they told him they renamed it Soldatsburg in honor of the dead.

“But nothing was renamed. It was destroyed in punishment. Is it another town you are thinking of?”

“It must be.” This other alt-reality was too confusing.

“But I am not from there, anyway. I was born in Petersburg, then moved to Paris. Where I was forced into this…”

“But… then why ‘Slut of Stalingrad?’ ”

She pointed to her bruises. “They have never stopped punishing us. And, because I am French, which they also hate, they love to… to… before they fuck they…” She broke down. She was ashamed. But this kind man’s questions forced her to honesty

“Yulieva!” Compassion overwhelmed him; he took her in his arms. She let her cry while he held and rocked her.

As he held her, John felt a network of raised scars, like a spiderweb. Had this been the Juliana of his world, he would have recognized it as the scars that nearly kept her out of the Reich. The accident that made her unable to bear children.

Her sobbing had subsided. “I see you feel the old scars.”

Great Scott, do they actually whip her? he thought... But he was afraid to ask.

She lifted her head. “Strange, it is an old scar, but I do not remember how I got it. I am told I was hit by a moving vehicle as a small child, but I do not know if it was in the Soviet Union or France…”

John pondered her words. “Well, you’re a survivor. This is proof,” he said. He held her tighter and lightly brushed his lips on her forehead.

As soon as he did, he regretted it. Yulieva remembered her job, and was suddenly kissing him on the mouth. Oh god, her mouth... it was so tender and warm. It wasn’t helping that her breasts were threatening to pop out of that brassiere.

He pushed her away, turning his head and trying to calm his breathing. “No... no…”

Her face was distressed again. “But… why? I thought I please you? Do you really like boys so much?”

John laughed. He was tempted to tell her he didn’t like “boys” at all – but he sensed that would be too confusing in this reality. Lord only knew what horrible reputation he had here. He pulled out his wallet with Helen’s picture. “No… _she_ is the reason I can’t.”

Yulieva looked. “So beautiful! Your wife?”

“Yes, my dear Helen. She is everything to me.”

“But she left you…”

“I know. But she still is all I want. All I dream of.”

“Like English saying, ‘carry a torch for’ ?”

“Yes, I carry a torch for her. Always.” In every universe, he added to himself.

“But… I must please you!” She looked up at him. And in every universe, John thought, Juliana will always have those seductive eyes, the better to play bird-with-the-broken-wing with.

“Well, that kiss was pretty pleasing!”

She smiled. “Yes, but… I am gift for your whole stay in Berlin. All two weeks. You have not unwrapped all of your gift… and I am prettier from the front.”

He wrinkled his brow. Yet he saw what she was driving at. If he didn’t seem happy with her, there was no telling what would those beasts do to her.

“All right,” he said softly. “I’ll be happy to see ‘all of my gift’. But could I ask my present to unwrap herself?”

She stifled a soft laugh and stood up. She turned on a radio that was quietly playing some soft music. She danced a bit then leaned forward, undoing the bra, tossing it into his lap with an extra shimmy for good measure. (Shake those maracas, Jules, he thought irreverently.) She danced a bit more, and put a stilettoed shoe on the bed. (How did she even walk in them?) Off it came, and she carelessly tossed it over her shoulder, then the other.

Yulieva took a couple of steps forward, questioning him with her eyes. He swallowed hard and nodded. She untied one side of her gold panties, slowly. She held the strings with one hand, slowly dragging the other across the satiny crotch, suggesting what fun it would be to watch her play there. Finally she untied the other strings.

There was a whiff of her musky sex, and her panties also landed in his lap. There was just a hint of moisture on the crotch. Gently he crumpled it up and held it close to his face. Ohh, this was dangerous; how was it that she touched on a fetish of his? But he remembered his wife, who indulged him so – when they were still together. He swallowed hard and set the silky clothing on the bed.

Yulieva leaned forward, cocking her head seductively. “Do you want anything else, Herr Reichsmarschall.”

John took a deep breath and paused before answering. “Please call me John. And go ahead and sit down.”

She sat, back straight and ankles crossed in a ladylike fashion. She had a hunch this request was not going to require gymnastics or sexual fluids.

“So, I have you for 2 weeks. In that time, who else has access to you?”

Her eyes widened. “Why, no one! I am yours alone...”

“So, no one else can have you? You aren’t someone else’s mistress?”

“Ohhh!” Tears started in her eyes. “No one wants Yulieva! I am just a Russian-French piece of dirt to them. I come from lands with centuries of culture and art. But they only want tits and pussy. And my back...” She snuffled, wiping tears away.

John took out a handkerchief. “But if you were someone’s mistress... could I or anyone else have you?”

She looked at him like he were an idiot. “Be with another man’s woman? Of an officer? Without permission? That would be... like death sentence!”

“Really?!” A slow smile slid across his face. “Get dressed, Yulieva. Quickly.”

She shimmied into her clothes. “Yes, John?”

He took her hand, then opened the portière and led her out of the alcove.


	6. His Mistress

The table saw him walking hand-in-hand with her. Himmler looked surprised and amused. Mengele - whose cigarette boy was awol - looked less than pleased.

“Mein Führer, you said Yulieva was my gift, and she has told me I have her for the next two weeks? Meaning no one else gets...” he looked pointedly at Mengele, “...gets a crack at her?”

“_Das is richtig_. Are you having fun with your gift, mein John?” The old man cracked his knuckles gleefully.

John ground his teeth. He would play along. “Mmmmm, yes, a _lot_ of fun with my gift.” He kissed her cheek. “So much I want her _all to myself_.”

Himmler chuckled. “She is your plaything for this fortnight! Do you want me to make our meetings shorter?” The table laughed.

“No!” He slid an arm around her, brushing the side of her breasts. “As Reichmarschall I need to be in Berlin more often, and want her _whenever_ I am here. Or even, to call her to New York, if I... have need.” He kissed her again, a bit more passionately. “In short, I want her for my mistress.”

Mengele’s face was positively stormy. Klemm and Metzger looked like you could have knocked them over with a feather. Von Braun shook his head disapprovingly and went back to doodling jet propulsions.

Himmler leaned back, leering still, but a bit concerned. “Mein John... she is both Russian and French. Two former enemies. Are you sure?...”

“Your enemies, not mine. We Americans were once your adversaries, but you seem to like us all right now.” Himmler had to nod. “She screws as good or better than many of the German girls I’ve had hereabouts.” Yulieva stroked his cheek in gratitude. “And I’m willing to pay to keep her.”

Himmler clapped his hands together and laughed. “Oh, worry not about the cost, Reichsmarschall, she is yours! They are all the same, once you peel their fancy coverings, _ja_?”

“Yes, that’s so. Since that’s settled, then, I wish you all _Gute Nacht_! I’m leaving with my new toy. We have things to do.


	7. Zvyozdochka  and Matryoshka

John ordered a taxi while Yulieva got their coats. He put on his leather trench, and noticed that her coat was full-length white ermine, with a tall hat of the same. He whistled.

“That’s quite the get-up!” he said.

“What is ‘get-up’? You want to have me lap-sit?”

“No, no,” he laughed, “It’s just an American term for a fancy outfit. You do look good enough to eat, though...”

“_Spasibo_! I think I like your American terms. The ermine... very Russian, no?”

“I’d say so. But if the Germans don’t like Russians... how do they react when they see you in this?”

“If I am Franco-Russian whore, they want me to look the part! So my dress tonight – French _cocotte_! My coat, émigré princess! Ironic? So it is. Wait until you see the apartment. You’d think I was Catherine the Great in Hermitage!”

They were there soon enough, and John saw what she meant. It was small, but beyond luxurious. Lapiz lazuli columns. Malachite-topped tables. A giant samovar dominated the dining room and a real Faberge egg had its own display case. He passed the bedroom with its open door and spotted another Faberge egg – and a full sable coverlet on the king-sized bed.

He felt Yulieva come up behind him and wrap her arms around him. Her breasts prickled his back. “Is soft... and I would lay you on it, grateful, if you wish. Or not. I am yours, John. Do with as you like. I am no threat to your love for the beautiful _Helena_, who has your torch.”

He couldn’t prevent a small smirk. “All the same, no thank you. I must be true.”

She unhanded him and stood in front of him smiling – a real smile. “A good man! What a rare sight.” She took off her hat, which she still had on. “Do you know, these are the same animal?” she said, pointing to the hat, then the bedspread. “Same! Sable is summer rodent, ermine is same rodent in winter! All depends on timing, you see!”

“That’s true.” John cleared his throat. “When I touched your scar this evening, the star on your shoulder... I was remembering another time. Someone else, who looked like you.”

“A woman you loved?” she asked coyly.

John grimaced. “A woman I shot.”

She stepped back, shocked. “But surely you did not mean to!”

“I meant to do it... but not to truly hurt her.” he rubbed his forehead in pain, “I... shot her to try and save her. And I failed.”

Yulieva’s eyes widened. He could see her weighing his words in her mind.

“A strange situation. But you _meant_ to save her - so it was accident! Oh, John, did she die?”

“Well, I don’t know! You see, she...” oh, how could he explain how Miss Crain disappeared, like a poof of smoke, like a mirage, going god knows where?... “She ran off. I don’t know what ever happened to Juliana...”

“Chu- Chuliana?” Yulieva’s tongue mangled the name. But the surprise face suggested that she had knowledge of her.

“Do you recognize that name? Yulieva, you must tell me.”

“I have never known a _real girl_ by that name, but...”

“Tell me!”

“When... I was little, in Russia, before my sister... I had an imaginary friend. I thought she would look like me, but maybe a little older and wiser. And I called her Yuliana! She was my twin, yes?”

“When we moved to France, it was so hard! So if we did not have enough to eat, Yuliana would pass her bread to me so I didn’t starve. And when the tanks rolled and the boots marched, Yuliana kept me safe.”

“Even now, she helps me. When I am worried or lonely, she crawls into my bed, no matter what Nazi is there, and tells me things will be better. She cries for me when I am whipped - so I won’t cry and invoke their anger.“

She stopped suddenly and the room fell silent. John thought for a long time.

He didn’t know how long he was going to be in this alt-world. He wanted to be in the other alt-world, with Helen and Thomas at home. With the Juliana his alt-self had saved. Or even in his own reality. Maybe that Juliana, stringent and suspicious as she was, would return and help explain things to him.

But, if he had to stay here... would it help Yulieva to know about alt-worlds, alt-selves? To know she was not always a toy for de Sade’s disciples?...

“Well, I am not a big man for beliefs,” he said. “But I believe the human mind has great resources for strength, when those resources are needed. I don’t think Yuliana is just an imaginary friend. I think... she is a version of yourself. A best and strongest version of yourself.”

“Yes...”

“Do you have friends here in Berlin, Yulieva?”

“No. Regular clients who say ‘friends’ but when I am not on duty, I am alone.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to be lonely! Would... would you rather I call you to New York?”

“No! _Nyet_! John, I must stay in Berlin... I hate it here, but I must stay.”

John was shocked at the passion of her response. But it was her choice.

“It was an offer, and I meant no harm. But if you ever do think it would be better to go to New York...”

“I will not! I am alone here. But I am not lonely. They are different. My solitude gives me strength. Alone, away from the clubs at night, and the stores and cafes at day... I am a star again. Not one of these fake stars that spy, made by Rocket Man. But _Zvyozdochka_, my mother’s little star, free of this earth, in my own course in the sky.”

Her face was lifted to the ceiling, and her eyes were bright. She looked the most herself since they had been introduced. And the most like Juliana.

John took her hand and kissed it. “Then remain free. I won’t call you to New York. And something tells me I won’t be in Berlin that much. I won’t bother you.”

“But... visit me?”

“Do you want me to?” John was surprised. “I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“But if you visit me and we talk, there is no harm to either!” He nodded. “And John, I like you. As... a friend.”

“Well, I like you too,” he said. He laughed awkwardly, then she laughed too.

“For me, I like to be alone but for you...” she got up and went to the bedroom; she brought back something made of wood “..._this_ is your strength.” She set it down.

John recognized the shape. “Russian nesting dolls?”

“_Matryoshka_, we call it. This is mine, from Petersburg, nothing of the Germans in this! Is a bit unusual - you see the design of the house....” So it was, with the smaller bubble on top having an onion dome, like a Russian house. “But inside the Home...” she opened the dolls and pulled them out, “...the Papa... the Mama... Beloved Son... the Precocious Daughter... and Baby!...”

John touched them all, eyes swimming with tears. Surely Yulieva did not know about any of his family but Helen?

“You see, they are all separate, but also together. And so, they are one, strong and indivisible.”

“Ohh... but they are divisible.” He ignored the “Mama” doll, and went to the third figurine and lifting it gently. “Sometimes death...” He squinched his eyes, breathing hard.

She reached out, touching his arm. “Had you a son?” Her answer was met by vigorous nodding. “And he?...”

John laid his hand over his face. She let him cry it out.

“But if you remember him... then he is not really gone...” John shot her a savage look. What pap! How could she offer such platitudes?

Yulieva shrunk into the cushions at his glare, but she stood her ground. “He has become a part of you... _no one can take him away_!”

She said it with such conviction. John remembered she had gone through hard times, too. Perhaps she had lost someone.

He looked at the “Son” doll again. “Why is his face worn more than the others?”

Yulieva smiled. “When I was a little girl, I thought he was handsome! And so I would kiss him!”

John put it down gently. He looked at the “Baby” doll. “What about this one?” She was worn, too, but not as much as the other.

Her eyes were far away. “I kiss her every night now. And I whisper to her I will find her... try to whisper to her, as Yuliana does to me...”

“Who is she?”

“My little sister. Gertraud. When Papa was killed, Mama was made concubine for a Nazi colonel. He got her with child and gave that name. He went back to Fatherland some time afterwards. We looked out for each other...”

“Then, after I had been here for some time, I heard through channels that my sister was missing from Paris. No one knew where; no clue! But then, I was with a client. And, as he was using me, he mentioned that there was rumor of another Franco-Russian slut in town; would I not like a threesome?”

Disgust covered her face. “No, I would not! But, sick as he was, he gave me hope. And so, I walk every day, as much as I can, in the town, to try to seek her face. Yuliana tells me not to give up. That I will find her.”

“I hope you do. Before they do. If you do, keep her with you. You can say she’s a maid or something... I’ll pay, so she doesn’t have to suffer as you did.”

Yulieva’s face glowed. She looked about to say something. John waved his hand to gesture, “Say no more about it.” They smiled at each other.

“Your last name, though – the Colonel didn’t make you change that?”

“No. A mere concubine can keep her name. Such freedom, no? Besides, sluts like us do not deserve a Aryan name. And besides, it is a name that is lucky.”

“Why, does it have a special meaning?”

“Yes. In Russian it means a bird. Bird of peace, also vigilance. _Zhuravlin_ means ‘crane.’ ”

Crane. Of course, thought John. How could it be otherwise?

He got up. “Well, I really should be going. If you don’t mind. I really want to get back to my hotel... there may be news from the American Reich.”

“I understand.” Then she picked up all the dolls and put them back together. He put on his leather coat and was at the door when she came up to him. “I think you will go to New York soon, to find your children and your _Helena_.” She took his hands and opened them, giving him the nesting dolls. “Put back together your _Matryoshka_.”

“Yulieva! This is too much! You can’t give me your heirloom... your baby doll? The one that represents Gertraud?”

“You need it more than me! I still whisper to my sister. I will find her.”

“All right...” He was genuinely touched. “You don’t know how much this means to me...”

She stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. “I am glad we met, John Smith. Be well. _Au Revoir_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, sable and ermine are two different species of weasel. But Yulieva is right that the ermine is brown in summer & winter. It’s up to the reader if she doesn’t know or is just embellishing a story to amuse John, but her larger point about timing and appearances still holds.


	8. A Familiar Face

It was dawn as he left the apartment building, and he was glad of that. He didn’t know where he was going. But at least he could see where he was wandering.

He vaguely recognized street crossings and buildings. Maybe alt-world Berlin was not very different than Berlin in his world. Not that he knew _that_ Berlin very well, either – after all, he was usually being whisked from place to place by some driver– but at least if it was similar, he had a fighting chance of not being totally lost.

But soon he recognized a street name that he knew had a hotel, so he followed it. A lone taxi passed him and after a block or so, pulled to the curb. It was the Hotel Bismarck, where John and Erich and other members of the American Reich had often stayed.

A man in a SS uniform – an Oberstgruppenführer’s uniform - got out of the cab. John rubbed his eyes. Tall, dark-haired, widow’s peak...

“Erich! Erich Raeder!” John called and waved. He looked like a damn fool, waving and shouting at someone this early in the morning, but he didn’t care. The man looked his way... it _was_ Erich. Then Erich was looking intently; did he see him? He could have sworn he saw recognition on his aide’s face. His face lit with astonishment and joy. He turned to John and John walked towards him...

Something happened... did he trip? All of a sudden, John’s sight went frighteningly gray. The _Matryoshka_ doll started to slip out of John’s hand and he lunged forward so he didn’t lose it...


	9. The Park

He scraped his chest against the ground, his head landing in a pile of pulled weeds and garden debris. He looked up and saw a gardener frowning down at him.

John sat up, and looked around. He was in Central Park – Reichzentrum Park, as it was known nowadays. His hand cradled the _Matryoshka_, perfectly safe and unharmed.

He got up stiffly. He limped about and noticed a paper in a trash bin. Still drawing glares from the gardener, he pulled it out and looked at it. The day and date was his own time, but that didn’t mean anything. But then he saw a brief reference to himself; still Reichsmarschall and Oberstgruppenführer, as they still hadn’t named anyone to his old post.

There was a vague and mysterious blurb about Reich experiments into the “nature of reality” and “acquisition of knowledge” that Dr. Josef Mengele was heading in a lab in the Northeast. That would be Lackawanna. “We have the secrets of the universe at our fingertips,” the doctor was saying, “And what is more appropriate for the Master Race than to master space and time?”

So, not the Space Race, nor the Space Cage, but _die Nebenwelt_. It was still on.

He continued walking (well, limping), thinking and not thinking about a certain redhead. It hurt too much to think, but he couldn’t help it. He hung his head and jammed a hand into his pocket.

Something was in it... he pulled it out. An envelope, unopened, and in Helen’s writing. He walked quickly to a bench, put the dolls gently in his lap, then tore the note open and read...

“_Dear John,_

_I have been thinking about your last letters to me, begging me to come home. Thinking about... ha! More like I can’t stop thinking about them._

_I can’t live like this any longer, your face and words in my mind, and no way to stop it. So... I guess I will do as you suggest, and come home and at least give it a chance...._

_And you’re right, the girls do need their father. I can’t deny you that, John. Please know, I don’t regret our love and our happy times..._

_I’m just afraid for all our futures. Your job, it’s like a mistress, and what if this ‘mistress’ calls your name again? I’m so scared..._

_I don’t know what’s left of this marriage. It began in love... and I guess that will always be in me. I don’t know how far we can go with it, after all this time and all these trials. But I can’t deny the love that was there (is there?). So, yes... I’m willing to try. Try to revive it._

_Still, as much as I want to, I’m afraid to sign this “Love” because I really don’t know where we stand. And I’m afraid to write Goodbye. I’ve had ‘goodbyes’ enough to last 100 lifetimes. So, I guess I’ll sign it ‘Au Revoir’ - ‘til we see each other again’..._”

He kissed the letter, wishing he could kiss Helen herself. That soon he _would_ kiss Helen herself. It was not all he had hoped for - but it was hope.

He put the letter back in its pocket, put the dolls safely in an inside pocket, and headed for home.


End file.
